


Speak

by KitsuneAkage



Category: Speak - Laurie Halse Anderson
Genre: Minor Violence, Past Sexual Assault, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:28:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29860875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KitsuneAkage/pseuds/KitsuneAkage
Summary: Have you ever wondered why there are people that stopped caring about the world around them all of a sudden? Or maybe even a friend with who you used to be super close? Well, Melinda is that one friend, and she will tell you how it all started, in her first year of high school.





	1. First Marking Period- WELCOME TO MERRYWEATHER HIGH

**Author's Note:**

> This story does not belong to me, it belongs to the author Laurie Halsey Anderson under the same title.
> 
> I loved this book from my English class and Its a pain having to look it up as a pdf as many of you know how it is, so I wanted to share this book with yall, again none of the characters nor story belong to me as I am simply re-writing the book into this platform. Enjoy :D.

It is my first morning of high school. I have seven new notebooks, a skirt I hate,  
and a stomachache.  
The school bus wheezes to my corner. The door opens and I step up. I am the  
first pickup of the day. The driver pulls away from the curb while I stand in the  
aisle. Where to sit? I’ve never been a backseat wastecase. If I sit in the middle, a  
stranger could sit next to me. If I sit in the front, it will make me look like a little  
kid, but I figure it’s the best chance I have to make eye contact with one of my  
friends, if any of them have decided to talk to me yet.  
The bus picks up students in groups of four or five. As they walk down the aisle,  
people who were my middle-school lab partners or gym buddies glare at me. I  
close my eyes. This is what I’ve been dreading. As we leave the last stop, I am  
the only person sitting alone.  
The driver downshifts to drag us over the hills. The engine clanks, which makes  
the guys in the back holler something obscene. Someone is wearing too much  
cologne. I try to open my window, but the little latches won’t move. A guy  
behind me unwraps his breakfast and shoots the wrapper at the back of my head.  
It bounces into my lap—a Ho-Ho.  
We pass janitors painting over the sign in front of the high school. The school  
board has decided that “Merryweather High—Home of the Trojans” didn’t send  
a strong abstinence message, so they have transformed us into the Blue Devils.  
Better the Devil you know than the Trojan you don’t, I guess. School colors will  
stay purple and gray. The board didn’t want to spring for new uniforms.  
Older students are allowed to roam until the bell, but ninth-graders are herded  
into the auditorium. We fall into clans: Jocks, Country Clubbers, Idiot Savants,  
Cheerleaders, Human Waste, Eurotrash, Future Fascists of America, Big Hair  
Chix, the Marthas, Suffering Artists, Thespians, Goths, Shredders. I am clanless.  
I wasted the last weeks of August watching bad cartoons. I didn’t go to the mall,  
the lake, or the pool, or answer the phone. I have entered high school with the  
wrong hair, the wrong clothes, the wrong attitude. And I don’t have anyone to sit  
with.  
I am Outcast.

There is no point looking for my ex-friends. Our clan, the Plain Janes, has  
splintered and the pieces are being absorbed by rival factions. Nicole lounges  
with the Jocks, comparing scars from summer league sports. Ivy floats between  
the Suffering Artists on one side of the aisle and the Thespians on the other. She  
has enough personality to travel with two packs. Jessica has moved to Nevada.  
No real loss. She was mostly Ivy’s friend, anyway.  
The kids behind me laugh so loud I know they’re laughing about me. I can’t help  
myself. I turn around. It’s Rachel, surrounded by a bunch of kids wearing clothes  
that most definitely did not come from the EastSide Mall. Rachel Bruin, my ex–  
best friend. She stares at something above my left ear. Words climb up my  
throat. This was the girl who suffered through Brownies with me, who taught me  
how to swim, who understood about my parents, who didn’t make fun of my  
bedroom. If there is anyone in the entire galaxy I am dying to tell what really  
happened, it’s Rachel. My throat burns.  
Her eyes meet mine for a second. “I hate you,” she mouths silently. She turns her  
back to me and laughs with her friends. I bite my lip. I am not going to think  
about it. It was ugly, but it’s over, and I’m not going to think about it. My lip  
bleeds a little. It tastes like metal. I need to sit down.  
I stand in the center aisle of the auditorium, a wounded zebra in a National  
Geographic special, looking for someone, anyone, to sit next to. A predator  
approaches: gray jock buzz cut, whistle around a neck thicker than his head.  
Probably a social studies teacher, hired to coach a blood sport.  
Mr. Neck: “Sit.”  
I grab a seat. Another wounded zebra turns and smiles at me. She’s packing at  
least five grand worth of orthodontia, but has great shoes. “I’m Heather from  
Ohio,” she says. “I’m new here. Are you?” I don’t have time to answer. The  
lights dim and the indoctrination begins.

THE FIRST TEN LIES THEY TELL YOU IN HIGH SCHOOL  
1\. We are here to help you.

2\. You will have enough time to get to your class before the bell  
rings.  
3\. The dress code will be enforced.  
4\. No smoking is allowed on school grounds.  
5\. Our football team will win the championship this year.  
6\. We expect more of you here.  
7\. Guidance counselors are always available to listen.  
8\. Your schedule was created with your needs in mind.  
9\. Your locker combination is private.  
10\. These will be the years you look back on fondly.

My first class is biology. I can’t find it and get my first demerit for wandering  
the hall. It is 8:50 in the morning. Only 699 days and 7 class periods until  
graduation.


	2. OUR TEACHERS ARE THE BEST...

My English teacher has no face. She has uncombed stringy hair that droops on  
her shoulders. The hair is black from her part to her ears and then neon orange to  
the frizzy ends. I can’t decide if she had pissed off her hairdresser or is morphing  
into a monarch butterfly. I call her Hairwoman.  
Hairwoman wastes twenty minutes taking attendance because she won’t look at  
us. She keeps her head bent over her desk so the hair flops in front of her face.  
She spends the rest of class writing on the board and speaking to the flag about  
our required reading. She wants us to write in our class journals every day, but  
promises not to read them. I write about how weird she is.  
We have journals in social studies, too. The school must have gotten a good  
price on journals. We are studying American history for the ninth time in nine  
years. Another review of map skills, one week of Native Americans, Christopher  
Columbus in time for Columbus Day, the Pilgrims in time for Thanksgiving.  
Every year they say we’re going to get right up to the present, but we always get  
stuck in the Industrial Revolution. We got to World War I in seventh grade—  
who knew there had been a war with the whole world? We need more holidays  
to keep the social studies teachers on track.  
My social studies teacher is Mr. Neck, the same guy who growled at me to sit  
down in the auditorium. He remembers me fondly. “I got my eye on you. Front  
row.”  
Nice seeing you again, too. I bet he suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder.  
Vietnam or Iraq—one of those TV wars.


	3. SPOTLIGHT

I find my locker after social studies. The lock sticks a little, but I open it. I dive  
into the stream of fourth-period lunch students and swim down the hall to the  
cafeteria.  
I know enough not to bring lunch on the first day of high school. There is no  
way of telling what the acceptable fashion will be. Brown bags—humble  
testament to suburbia, or terminal geek gear? Insulated lunch bags—hip way to  
save the planet, or sign of an overinvolved mother? Buying is the only solution.  
And it gives me time to scan the cafeteria for a friendly face or an inconspicuous  
corner.  
The hot lunch is turkey with reconstituted dried mashed potatoes and gravy, a  
damp green vegetable, and a cookie. I’m not sure how to order anything else, so  
I just slide my tray along and let the lunch drones fill it. This eight-foot senior in  
front of me somehow gets three cheeseburgers, French fries, and two Ho-Hos  
without saying a word. Some sort of Morse code with his eyes, maybe. Must  
study this further. I follow the Basketball Pole into the cafeteria.  
I see a few friends—people I used to think were my friends—but they look  
away. Think fast, think fast. There’s that new girl, Heather, reading by the  
window. I could sit across from her. Or I could crawl behind a trash can. Or  
maybe I could dump my lunch straight into the trash and keep moving right on  
out the door.  
The Basketball Pole waves to a table of friends. Of course. The basketball team.  
They all swear at him—a bizarre greeting practiced by athletic boys with zits. He  
smiles and throws a Ho-Ho. I try to scoot around him.  
Thwap! A lump of potatoes and gravy hits me square in the center of my chest.  
All conversation stops as the entire lunchroom gawks, my face burning into their  
retinas. I will be forever known as “that girl who got nailed by potatoes the first  
day.” The Basketball Pole apologizes and says something else, but four hundred  
people explode in laughter and I can’t read lips. I ditch my tray and bolt for the  
door.  
I motor so fast out of the lunchroom the track coach would draft me for varsity if  
he were around. But no, Mr. Neck has cafeteria duty. And Mr. Neck has no use  
for girls who can run the one hundred in under ten seconds, unless they’re  
willing to do it while holding on to a football.  
Mr. Neck: “We meet again.”  
Me:  
Would he listen to “I need to go home and change,” or “Did you see what that  
bozo did”? Not a chance. I keep my mouth shut.  
Mr. Neck: “Where do you think you’re going?”  
Me:  
It is easier not to say anything. Shut your trap, button your lip, can it. All that  
crap you hear on TV about communication and expressing feelings is a lie.  
Nobody really wants to hear what you have to say.  
Mr. Neck makes a note in his book. “I knew you were trouble the first time I saw  
you. I’ve taught here for twenty-four years and I can tell what’s going on in a  
kid’s head just by looking in their eyes. No more warnings. You just earned a  
demerit for wandering the halls without a pass.”


End file.
